by Cathryn Hein
‘No. From Australia,’ she said.
‘Australia? Very far away.’ He leaned in slightly towards her. ‘Very exotique. Beaucoup des animaux dangereux.’
‘Yes,’ she said, chuckling at a description she had heard a hundred times before. ‘Lots of dangerous animals.’
He chuckled with her, his brown eyes glowing with humour, and she was struck by his good looks. Not in Raimund’s league, but still handsome, with smooth, deep-olive skin and a wide, full-lipped mouth. He was shorter, although that wasn’t unusual given Raimund towered over most men, but he was broad-shouldered and the chino-clad legs so casually stretched out under the table were long, the thighs muscular.
‘I did not know Australian women were so enchanting,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Your husband is a very lucky man.’
Olivia bit her lip. She knew he was chatting her up and she should stop him, but it felt nice to be flattered. And deep down, she had a childish urge to see if it would make Raimund jealous.
‘I’m not married.’
‘Ah. That is good.’ He grinned, exposing slightly crooked teeth. ‘So, what do you think of Aix? It’s sublime, don’t you think?’
‘Very.’
‘Yes. We are surrounded by history and magnificent architecture. Look across the street at the Tribunal de Commerce.’ He pointed towards the opposite side of the road to a stunning portal, the lintel held on the heads of two giant stone caryatids. ‘Where else would you see such a combination of architecture and art?’
The waiter returned with the espressos, and without asking, plucked the fifty-euro note from under the salt shaker, inspected the bill and placed the change on a tray in front of Olivia before moving on.
She peered up the street, looking for Raimund, but there was no sign of him. She tried not to worry. He had promised he wouldn’t be long, and it was pleasant in the dappled shade talking to this stranger and watching the world go by.
‘So you’re a local?’ she asked as she added a sachet of sugar to her espresso.
‘Yes, but my family is originally from Aix-la-Chapelle.’
Something about the way he said the city’s name sent Olivia’s pulse racing. She stared at him, at his smiling, handsome face while alarm sent her senses reeling.
He held out his hand. ‘Excusez-moi, I have been very rude. Please, let me introduce myself.’
She looked at it and swallowed, but made no move to take it.
Tilting his head, he tutted at her, and in a cobra-fast move snatched her hand from her lap. His skin felt clammy, like the back of a frog. He squeezed her fingers hard.
‘Gaston Poulin. Such a delight to meet a friend of Raimund’s. A shame he left you alone, don’t you think?’
CHAPTER
9
Raimund’s voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the menace in it.
‘Stand up and walk away, Olivia. Take the first street you come to and keep walking. I will find you.’
Olivia hadn’t noticed his arrival but his words only sent her anxiety rocketing. He stood at the edge of the table, his back to the street and the other patrons. In one hand he held the aluminium case, in the other, a yellow Chocolaterie du Puyricard bag. Yet his demeanour was loaded with threat.
‘Oh, how delightful,’ said Gaston as though he were meeting an old friend, but without releasing Olivia’s hand. ‘If it isn’t Patrice’s heroic brother. I must say, you have wonderful taste in women.’
He caught a strand of Olivia’s hair in his fingers and caressed it as Raimund had done only the day before. She swallowed, trying to control the fear that had her breathing in shallow pants and sweat prickling her upper lip and forehead. He twirled his finger, wrapping the lock tight, and smirked at her. She stiffened, waiting for the yank on her scalp. It didn’t come. Instead, he raised his hand and splayed his fingers. Her hair uncoiled and drifted softly back to her shoulder.
‘Olivia, you say? Mmm.’ He rolled her name around his mouth as though tasting it. ‘Olivia. A fitting name for one so lovely.’
Raimund didn’t react, though his eyes remained anchored on Gaston. An outsider would assume he was talking to an acquaintance, but Olivia could see the tension in him. The hands tight around the case and bag. The mask of iron control. The way he stood, alert, wound, like a tiger ready to attack.
‘Silly of you to leave her alone. I would not have done such a thing. You never know who might be walking past. How lucky you were I was on hand to keep her company.’ Gaston smiled at Olivia, then turned to Raimund, looking him up and down. ‘I see you have not let Patrice’s unfortunate death upset you too much. But love is a marvellous antidote to sorrow, don’t you agree? And if I’m not mistaken, you and the adorable Olivia are very much in love.’ His thumb caressed the fleshy skin between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Very much. I never thought it possible, but I must admit to feeling quite jealous.’ He chuckled. ‘Imagine that. Me. Jealous of a Blancard.’
Olivia hauled on her arm, trying to free herself from Gaston’s grip, but his fingers tightened. His nails bit into the thin skin of the back of her hand. Incensed, she clenched her left fist and swung it hard towards his stomach, but Gaston easily caught the blow. He crushed his palm around her fist, over-bending her finger joints, mashing bone, tendons and cartilage.
She tried not to whimper, but the effort caused involuntary tears to sting her eyes. He smiled apologetically before releasing her hand, as though his reaction was accidental and contained no threat. The other remained in his grip.
Raimund took a step closer and leaned across the table, his eyes as cold and black as frozen tar.
‘Let her go.’
The words were calm, almost mild, yet they chilled Olivia’s sweat-soaked skin. The Raimund she knew had disappeared. In his place stood a soldier. A soldier facing his enemy. A soldier who would not hesitate to kill.
‘Now, why would I do that?’ asked Gaston. Then, with deliberate slowness, he lifted her right hand and kissed it. ‘She’s far too delectable.’
The touch of his mouth turned Olivia’s stomach. His lips lingered on her knuckles. She felt the hot dart of his tongue wet her skin, and then her hand was free. She scrambled upright, breathing hard and staring at this monstrous reptile who had crawled so easily into their enchanted afternoon.
‘Go to the car, Olivia,’ ordered Raimund.
She didn’t move.
He shot her a sharp, icy glare. ‘Now.’
Her gaze swivelled from Raimund to Gaston and back again. She didn’t want to leave him. She didn’t trust him not to do something stupid.
Though she realised it was folly, Olivia held her ground. She shifted close to Raimund’s side, but made no move to step around him. In a crowded brasserie, she doubted Gaston would try anything more than the tacit threats he had already made. Raimund, however, had the steely-eyed appearance of a man capable of snapping his nemesis’s neck with one hand.
Gaston smiled and took a sip of coffee, seemingly unperturbed. An American couple pushed their way past Olivia and Raimund to snatch the table she had vacated, muttering apologies in drawling southern accents.
No one spoke or acknowledged them.
As they settled, they eyed Raimund, then Olivia, then Gaston before putting their heads together and whispering to one another.
Gaston took another sip from the tiny cup, studying Raimund over the rim. He put it down and then leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. The two men faced off, their noses barely eighteen inches apart, assessing one another like wild bulls, picking their moment to charge.
A fear-soaked trickle of sweat crept down Olivia’s spine.
‘Your brother died slowly,’ he said, switching to French, his eyes glowing with malice. ‘Very slowly. He cried out for you. Kept calling your name as though he expected you to come and save him. I warned him it was pointless, but he was very stubborn. It took a long time to make him quiet.’
The aluminium case slammed onto the table. The espresso cup tipped over, its r
emaining contents spilling, leaking across the formica like blood. The Americans gasped. They stared at the scene, wide-eyed. Olivia grabbed Raimund’s arm, trying to steady him. The muscles were rigid, the tendons like cables, ready to snap.
‘Leave it. It’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.’
Gaston smiled charmingly at the gaping Americans. ‘I’m sorry. We French are very passionate, especially when a woman is involved.’
At first, the woman’s mouth formed an ‘O’ but then her pudgy face turned eager. She nudged her husband and pointed, as though this demonstration of French tempest was just for them, and not a second could be missed.
‘Please, Raimund,’ said Olivia, squeezing his arm.
‘Yes, Raimund,’ said Gaston mockingly, switching back to French. ‘Do as your woman says. But I would take better care of her, if I were you. It’d be a terrible shame if someone were to hurt such an intriguing companion, don’t you think?’
‘Touch her and you die.’
There was no ambiguity in Raimund’s tone. He meant every word.
It had no effect on Gaston. He tilted his head to one side and sighed theatrically. ‘Ah, love. Such a strong emotion, but a very useful one, too. Patrice felt it. Not that it did him any good, of course. It just made the agony worse.’
Olivia pulled on Raimund’s arm. ‘Please, Raimund. Let’s go. He’s baiting you.’
‘She’s right. I am baiting you.’ His expression hardened. The charming smile thinned. Evil glittered in his eyes, as if the devil had become man. ‘I want what’s mine. Your brother wouldn’t give it to me, but I promise you will.’
Raimund’s arm felt like steel, unresponsive, immovable. He bent further across the table, as though about to divulge a secret. His voice was quiet, but its frigid calm sent a tremor of apprehension puckering Olivia’s skin.
‘And I promise you’ll never touch your precious legacy. I’m going to destroy it, Gaston. And when I’ve finished, you’ll be left with nothing but your madness and the echo of my laughter in your ears.’
‘You wouldn’t dare break your family’s vow.’
Raimund straightened and smiled without humour. ‘Thanks to you, I have no family. But I have a vow. And my vow was made at Patrice’s grave. It’s unbreakable. Don’t underestimate me, Gaston. I will see you suffer.’
Rage twisted Gaston’s mouth into an inhuman snarl. The madness he had so carefully hidden burst like a festering boil. He crouched, half upright. A Dr-Jekyll-turned-Hyde, the facade of sanity lost. The creature underneath exposed.
‘Oh, my,’ gasped the American woman.
No one paid her any attention.
Raimund lifted the case off the table, his expression smug, taunting his enemy as he had been taunted. Olivia placed her trembling hand on his back, wishing he would just leave. Gaston was dangerous and unpredictable. A psychopath with a mission. The crowds, the gawping Americans, the approaching poker-faced waiter would not stop his boiling fury. One wrong word could tip him over the edge.
‘You will never touch the sword,’ said Raimund. ‘Never.’
In one corner, Gaston’s top lip rose, exposing a crooked incisor tooth. His hands curled like claws. A warning rumbled in his throat, deep and feral.
Then as abruptly as it had appeared, his madness fled. The muscles in his face relaxed and subsided into benign pleasantry. Tutting at the mess, he set the upended cup back in its saucer, and then straightened, gazing around as though reorienting himself. Collected and terrifyingly normal.
He regarded Olivia and then Raimund, and sighed deeply. ‘Then I fear I have no choice but to hurt someone else you love. A pity. Your woman possesses exceptional allure.’
Olivia shoved Raimund hard in the back, but it was like trying to move a statue.
He pointed at Gaston. ‘This is your last warning. Touch her and you’re a dead man.’
‘Il y a un problème?’
The waiter stood at the table casting irritated looks between the two men.
‘No,’ said Olivia in French. ‘We were just leaving.’ She gave Raimund another push. This time, to her relief, he yielded.
Under the scrutiny of the waiter, Gaston and the speechless Americans, they stepped away from the restaurant and out into the flow of pedestrians. Raimund transferred the chocolaterie bag to the same one that held the case and then grabbed Olivia’s hand.
‘Move,’ he said. ‘Quickly.’
Without looking back, he pulled her up the Cours Mirabeau and then slipped down the first street that appeared. As they turned the corner, Olivia checked behind. Gaston had returned to his seat, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his face turned to the Americans, smiling and chatting as though nothing had happened. Then he looked up and caught her eye. The smile turned wolfish, a hunter who had found his prey.
Raimund didn’t run, but his strides were long and urgent. He dragged Olivia through the winding medieval streets of the old town, side-stepping shoppers and tourists, evading the metal bollards that lined the streets. Olivia’s sandals slipped and caught on the cobblestones as she ran to keep up. Several times she stumbled, and each time Raimund silently hauled her upright and moved on, intent on escape.
They passed through the heaving market area of the Place des Prêcheurs, heavy with the mingled scents of ripe fruit, vegetables, cheese and charcuterie. A tight gap appeared in the last row of stalls. He skirted a trestle table filled with colourful spices, herbs, grains and pulses. As she struggled to keep up, Olivia accidentally knocked over a sack of salted cod. The stall owner waved his fist and swore. She called out her apologies but Raimund ignored him, towing her out of the market and hurrying down the side of La Madeleine church before changing direction once more.
Though the streets became quieter and less populated, not once did he speak. Nor did he ease his pace. Despite her inadequate footwear, Olivia was given no quarter.
Several turns later they reached the junction of Rue d’Italie and the périphérique. Raimund’s step didn’t slow. He steered them through the maze of people, scooters and cars towards the Peugeot, his head swivelling constantly, alert for danger.
He stood by the car door surveying the street as she stepped inside. The door slammed shut and in seconds he was in the driver’s seat, thrusting the case and bag into her lap, and revving the engine. Despite his head touching the roof, this time, he didn’t lower it. Unlike that morning, this would be no happy drive.
Two easy moves and the car was on the road and swerving through traffic, leaving a cacophony of horns, screeching tyres and a wave of arms in its wake. He ducked across two lanes and wrenched the wheel hard to the right, skidding up a tree-lined avenue and racing away from centre ville. He drove with easy competence, his expression neutral, as though dramatic escapes from madmen were an everyday occurrence.
Turn after turn had Olivia’s head spinning. Nausea churned her stomach, but she didn’t know if it was from car-sickness, the aftermath of her confrontation with Gaston, or the final comprehension that Raimund meant every word he said.
His promise was inviolable. There would be no reprieve, no bowing to persuasion. He would destroy Durendal and take pleasure in his revenge.
Leaving her with nothing.
She moved the case and bag to the floor and sank back into the seat with her hands over her face. Her skin felt sticky and clammy, as though she was suffering an illness or in great pain. She tried to erase it, to bury it deep in the catacombs of her mind, but Gaston’s maniacal smile kept springing into her head like an evil goblin.
Until now, the threat hadn’t seemed genuine. She had felt insulated in Rognes, muddling about in the archives, scraping away at La Tasse. The terror of the chateau had seemed a lifetime ago. It had happened, but distraction and the distortion of hindsight had made it surreal, as though she’d seen it in a movie or it had happened to someone else.
Raimund’s grief had been genuine, too. Patrice was dead, murdered, he said, by Gaston. But she had felt distanc
ed from the reality. He had been tortured, that much she knew, but she had never been given the details and nor had she sought them. Her heart and mind had been elsewhere, unconcerned with danger.
Now it was real.
‘You are okay?’
Olivia dropped her hands. Raimund made a rapid scan of her face and body, his brow furrowed.
‘No. I’m not.’
‘You are hurt?’
She squeezed her eyes shut. Hurt didn’t begin to describe how she felt. Terrorised, sick and worried were better descriptions, but most of all she felt betrayed. Let down by herself. Let down by Raimund.
‘I’m not hurt.’
The car slowed and then stopped. She opened her eyes, expecting to find him pulled over, but he had simply reached a busy intersection. He waited for several cars to pass before merging into the traffic. Two more turns and he was on the A51 heading south to Marseille. Olivia rested her head against the cool glass of the passenger window.
It was no surprise he took the Les Milles–Vitrolles exit onto the D9. She’d expected his response to Gaston’s threats to involve a swift trip to Marignane airport. Although how he thought he would smuggle her on board a plane to England without her passport was anyone’s guess. Perhaps he would hold her prisoner in the car until Edouard arrived with her luggage, or lock her in a nearby hotel room until he’d arranged transport.
Well, he could go to hell. She would not be forced into leaving. She would not abandon La Tasse and she would not allow him to destroy the world’s precious history. Durendal had a new protector. And she would do whatever it took to save it.
As for her feelings, she would just have to learn to deal with them the best way she could. There were more important things at stake than her heart, more precious things than her ill-placed hankering for Raimund.
And if she told herself that enough, in time, she might end up believing it.
Semi-suburban towns, boxy shopping centres and industrial areas flew by. Olivia stared at them, at cars, at people going about their lives, and tried to cope with her swirling emotions. Raimund stayed quiet, but she felt his eyes constantly leaving the road to drill into her flesh like lasers.
